


lovely

by emiliaholland



Category: Carry On - Fandom, Snowbaz - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiliaholland/pseuds/emiliaholland
Summary: Simon and Baz are secretly together during their last year at Watford, but one wrong turn around Mummers House probably messed everything up





	1. Baz

0:00-0:27

_Thought I found a way_   
_Thought I found a way out_

____________________________________

I roll over to the source of the snoring. Bronze curls, gentle rise and fall of his back. My breath catches in my throat.

 _Don’t do this,_ I think to myself. _It’s not him_. If it was, it’d be too real, and nothing real ever happens to someone like me.

I watch his body rise and fall with the gentleness of his snoring. The curls are so similar, I almost reach out and touch them. Instead, I bite my fist and roll over and stare at the ceiling. The light from the window is casting odd shapes over the surface, moving around as if the sun were dancing through the curtains. It’s probably just the air conditioner blowing the curtains about, but I want to think the sun is actually dancing. If I can have one good thing, maybe it can be this irrational thought.

The boy next to me readjusts. He can’t be my good thing, sadly. I won’t let him. And now that I think about it, I want him to leave. The curls are just too similar.

“Si-,” I start to say but immediately catch myself, my heart racing. Even though he didn’t hear me, _I_ heard me, and I’m my worst enemy. I won’t let myself live it down if I ever accidentally called someone else his name, especially when it’s not even theirs. I knew the curls were too similar. This one is hitting all the wrong places when all I needed him to do was help me forget.

“Sam,” I say softly, shaking his shoulder. I mean, it is kind of his fault for having such a similar name. I’m just proud I can remember it. My heart is still skipping every other beat, but if I focus on getting him awake and out, I’ll be fine.

“Hmm?” he mumbles, turning to face me. I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at him, letting a small smile settle on my lips. “You have to go now,” I tell him.

He groans a little and rubs his face to wake up. I draw circles over his left collarbone, growing more impatient the longer he takes to try to wake up. I don’t break my façade, though. I’m not weak.

“I’m sorry to do this, but…” I run my finger down his chest. “I have a lot planned today.” I plant my hand over his belly, spreading my fingers to see how big my hand is against his stomach. He reaches up with one arm and loops it behind my neck, staring up at me. I’m looking down at my hand, avoiding looking in his eyes.

I don’t need the intimacy. I just need him to go.

He notices I’m not going to look at him and sighs. “I think my shirt is downstairs,” he says, moving away from me and getting out of bed. I watch him as he walks over to the window and bends down to put his pants on. I fall back into my pillow, never taking my eyes off his body.

I try to avoid looking at his curls.

Once he’s dressed, I walk him to the door and let him kiss me goodbye. I give him a false promise to call, and then I close the door, leaning my forehead against the dark wood, breathing in deep.

_Fuck._

I take my time walking back to my room. I don’t actually have anything planned today, except maybe practicing violin and then getting off. And repeat. It’s how my days usually go now. Wake up in the morning with a bloke who has bronze curls or blue eyes, and then kick them out before they get comfortable.

Sam’s curls won’t leave my head as I wrap myself in my duvet. Jesus, I almost called Sam by _his_ name. How could I have been so careless? Now he’s in my head again, and Gods know when I’ll be able to get him out.

I turn in my duvet to cocoon myself. I want to be surrounded by warmth if I have to think about him, because every time I do, I only think about what happened and it makes me feel empty.

I saw them. I was rounding the base of Mummers House, coming from the front and going around to listen to the pitch to make sure we didn’t have practice that day. I couldn’t remember if we did or not, I had been in a Simon haze.

I heard them. The laughing, the kissing. Immediately I knit my eyebrows together, expecting to intimidate some first years who thought snogging against the back wall of Mummers House was _actually_ a private spot. Instead, I found them.

Simon and Agatha.

I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to call out for him? Demand to know what he was doing? Agatha didn’t know about us, no one did. But everyone knew Agatha and Simon were over. I guess the two of them didn’t hear the news.

I stood there for a moment, shell shocked. My breath hitched, and my cheeks started to burn. I didn’t feel like I was going to cry, though. All I wanted to do was break them apart and then beat the shit out of Simon. I clenched my hands into fists and could feel them starting to shake with anger.

Then I just left.

I kept walking, not daring to turn back. I thought I heard someone call my name, but if I’m being honest, I just wanted him to call my name. I know Simon wouldn’t have if he was with Agatha, if he was with anybody.

We couldn’t let anyone know.

But _I_ know. I know what happened between us behind closed doors, and I know what he used to whisper to me in the dark, our arms and legs a tangle of limbs atop our beds we had pushed together. The thought of sleeping three feet apart was too much, we wanted to be right next to each other. We wanted to be close.

I did not cry, though.

And I don’t cry now as I think about it. It just _hurts_.

I try to focus on the sunlight dancing on my ceiling, but the hues are so golden they remind me of Sam’s hair, which reminds me of Simon’s hair, and now I’m in a vicious cycle of my own thoughts, so I get up and shower. Today, I won’t mope around. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. This kind of pain is like a cinderblock wedged into the middle of my chest and it makes me feel helpless.

I won’t let him make me feel weak.


	2. Baz

0:28-0:34

_But you never go away_   
_So, I guess I gotta stay now_

____________________________________

I thought I was at my last whim. Simon was everywhere when I needed him to be nowhere, but he worked himself up to think I was plotting against him, so he took it upon himself to stalk me.

I thought it was bad in our fifth year, but this was a new level. It might have only been worse then because I was a struggling fourteen-year-old who couldn’t decipher between the want to kill and the want to kiss, with the latter causing a whole other problem for me. I knew I was gay, but did it _have_ to be Simon I was falling in love with? Out of all people?

Again, I’m my own worst enemy.

Anyway, he would not leave me alone, no matter what. I started to create fantasies in my head that he was being so clingy because he secretly wanted me, too, but those were countered by our long-time agenda of ending one another.

 _He’s not trying to get with you,_ I would tell myself. _He’s trying to_ get _you. To end you._

_Don’t be weak, Basilton._

But, Crowley, it was hard to not be weak around him. Imagine living with fire when you’re completely flammable. He. Was. Everywhere.

And I almost lost it. I was too worked up one night, and I almost attacked him. But _he_ kissed _me_ , and my insane fantasies weren’t so insane anymore. I wanted him to end me right then and there, but instead he pulled me in closer.

Literally. He pulled me into him by my collar and snogged the shit out of me. Then he did it again the next night, and then the next night, until our snogging became so regular, I finally let myself believe that it was _real_ , and not just a Simon plot to kill me easier.

Maybe I didn’t have to die if Simon didn’t want me to. I didn’t think he wanted me to, the way his mouth would fight with mine as if he couldn’t get enough. He would pull my hair and make sure my entire body was against his. He said he wanted to _feel all of me_.

So, one night we pushed our beds together.

We were giddy, and I was in love. Simon was the only one I let myself be less-than-strong with. (Never weak. I always keep my guard up.) He convinced me that we would sleep better in one bed instead of our two. “Because admit it, you don’t want to let go of me as much as I don’t want to let go of you,” he had said as he threw the pillows off his bed onto the floor.

“What will Bunce say?”

Bunce always ended up in our room. I don’t know how, but I could always smell her traces, even though Simon thought I didn’t know. It only bothered me when she sat on my bed.

He flustered at that. “Um,” was all he could say.

“Never mind,” I interjected. The thought of him sleeping in my arms that night was exciting me too much, but I didn’t let him see it. He might have gotten the idea as I started to lift the end side of my bed to avoid scratching the hardwood because his eyes lit up.

That night we slept in a tangle of limbs, his curls tickling my chin all night. We kept our beds like that, even when Bunce came over. Simon probably told her then swore her to secrecy, but honestly, I wasn’t worried about her telling anyone. Her only friend is Simon.

One night, after we’d both gotten off, he looked at me. He was laid on top of me, head resting on my chest as I scratched his back lightly. All of a sudden, he raised his head and looked at me. I didn’t say anything, thinking he was going to, but the longer we looked at each other, and the more I studied that look on his face, I didn’t have anything to say. I knew that he did.

But he didn’t say it.

He just kissed me hard and laid back down. Then he rolled off of me, keeping his legs intertwined with mine, and hugged me from the side. “Let’s keep our beds like this forever,” was what he finally said. I had agreed. We fell asleep like that, him leaving his words unsaid, and me knowing exactly what he was going to say and overthinking why he didn’t.

After I found him and Agatha, I suddenly knew why.

When I walked away from them that day, I made my way to the pitch to find we didn’t have practice and sat on the grass for probably hours. When I finally got myself to go back to our room, I stared at our bed.

I thought about our nights that had become routine sex-capades, and how we reveled in the secrecy of it all. It was fun and mysterious and surreal. I thought about how we would whisper things into the dark of the night that we’d always been afraid to say, and then I thought about the time when he was afraid to say something.

I separated the beds. I knew he would be at dinner with Bunce, so I took the liberty of removing him from everything I possibly could before he came back.

He came back late that night. I was studying at my desk when he walked in.

“Babe,” he whispered cheerfully. We only whispered pet names to each other for fear of our room being somehow wired. It was all irrational, considering our moans were louder and less forgiving than pet names, but it was a part of the thrill.

I didn’t turn around. He froze once he noticed the beds. He didn’t say anything at first, probably because I was still too afraid to turn to him, so he slowly walked over to his side of the room and put his stuff down. He stood above his bed for a while, staring intensely into the side of my face. I was _not_ going to look at him now.

He sat finally sat down on the edge of his bed. “Baz,” he started, but I cut him off before he could ask.

“I needed space.” I replied, flatly. I still hadn’t looked at him.

“Oh,” was all he could muster. And then he took a shower for an hour, and I let my head fall into my hands.

I thought that meant he wanted me. That he’d changed his mind, he didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to feel all of me, so he could keep all of me, and I let him. Like a fool.

Why did he do it?

Why did he whisper sweet nothings to me in the darkness of our room in Mummers Hall, with the beds pushed together so we could sleep wrapped in each other’s arms, if he was just going to kiss Agatha against the back wall of the place we slept together the night before?

He kept whispering my name. I thought he was talking in his sleep, so I stayed awake until my body forced me to sleep just to hear my name slip out of his mouth.

“ _Baz_ …”

I tried to get away from him, but _he_ was the one who pulled me closer.


	3. Baz

0:36-1:09

_Oh, I hope someday I’ll make it out of here_   
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years_   
_Need a place to hide but I can’t find one near_   
_Want to feel alive, outside I can’t fight my fear_

____________________________________

It’s dark and musty. I thank the Gods for my impeccable vision; just one of the very few perks of being nonhuman. If Simon were here, he’d be stumbling over himself and causing a scene. He’d be so afraid, all of them would be able to smell his fear. Or maybe that’s just something I can do, smell how he’s feeling, as creepy as that sounds. When he’s angry, excited, afraid, they’re all different. My favorite is when he’s just him, but his angry scent is pretty good, too.

But Simon’s not here. And I shouldn’t want him to be here.

Here is dangerous. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, actually. I am technically dangerous, but I’m not sure what I’m hoping to gain from this.

No one bothers me as I walk around. I don’t know what to do with myself, but I know the others are too intimidated to come close to me. If my unending confidence wasn’t enough, they remember when I openly lit a cigarette and smoked it last time I was here.

 _Good._ I think. _Be afraid of me._

It’s good to be away in some new and unfamiliar territory. They say there’s no better remedy to clear the mind than getting away. I agree. Instead of thinking about him, I’m thinking about all of the vampires who think I am unaware of their staring at me.

I run my fingers along the spines of books that line the back wall. I’m not really reading the titles, I’m just trying to do something so I don’t look awkward. I start to remove a thick novel with binding that’s tearing away. Poor book. It just wanted to bring readers joy.

“Basilton,” someone says to my right. I stop pulling the book out and slowly set it back in place before turning to the voice.

“Nicodemus.” I reply levelly. I haven’t seen him since he ran off with Ebb’s dead body the day Simon lost his magic.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Well, I was going to read before you interrupted me…”

He scoffs at that.

“Why are you here, Basilton?” he demands. There’s an edge to his voice, he’s getting impatient. The vampires around us are straining to hear what we’re talking about. I look at them before looking back to his hard face.

“Thought we could catch up,” I say, improvising. If I don’t even know why I’m here, why does he deserve to know? Neither of us deserve anything, we’re the bad guys.

Nicodemus looks me up and down, not believing my lie one bit. “If that’s really it, then follow me,” he turns and heads for the door across from the books. I hesitate before following him, looking back and forth between him and the books, as if the books are any ounce of importance to me besides me oddly feeling sad for their slow ruin. When he hears me finally following him, he stops and turns to me.

“ _If_ that’s really it.” he reiterates. I roll my eyes as we continue to the back of the room and through a partly opened door.

The room is small and dark. There’s one small window on the left wall towards the top, but it’s covered by sheer IKEA curtains. Everything seems to have dust on it and I’m afraid to breathe in for fear of contamination.

Nicodemus doesn’t seem to mind one bit as he plops down on a stained red couch that lines the entirety of the back wall. Posters are taped up behind him, some falling off, others ripped in places. The dark green carpet has an awful tartan design and there are a few too many pizza boxes messily stacked by my feet. The place is messy, dirty, and reminds me of Fiona. No wonder they were close.

“So,” he asks nonchalantly, not motioning for me to sit. His arms are spread across the back of the sofa and he has one leg over the other, laid back and eyeing me still.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and straighten my posture. Even though I feel uncomfortable, I will not allow myself to look out-of-place.

“So.” I reply.

“Listen, I know you don’t really want to catch up,” he says. I start to protest, but he cuts me off. “That’s not who you are,”

He’s right. Me, and more specifically my family, aren’t really keen on “catching up” with people, especially vampires. Damn me, I should have thought this through. He knows us, he knows Fiona. Everything I say has to be carefully carved, but that’s hard when I’m speaking on whims.

“So, I can only guess,” he keeps going, “that you’re here to escape.”

“Escape from what?” I ask mockingly, as if _I_ had anything to escape from. Pfft.

“I dunno. Escape from something, but regardless, escape. Get away. Find solace in the one place that will tear you down in the way you think you need to be torn down.”

I cross my hands in front of my chest as I knit my eyebrows together.  “I don’t know what you’re on about,” No defeat admitted here.

“Ha! You’re so juvenile. I’m smarter than you think, Basilton.”

I breathe in sharply through my nose. God dammit. “It isn’t that easy being a vampire wizard,”

“Try being stricken.”

I felt uncomfortable again. He sounded like he was maybe pained to say that, which I didn’t think he felt all too bad about.

“Well, you asked for it. I didn’t.”

“Those are just technicalities. You don’t have it tough, you only want to victimize yourself to give people another reason to feel bad for you. _Oh, I’m a secret vampire amongst wizards and no one knows._ ” He clasps his hands over his chest and fans his eyelashes. I glare at him.

“You’re obviously upset about something. What are you running from, Basilton?”

“I didn’t think it was that obvious,” I finally say after a moment of awkward silence.

“Baz…” he breathes out a laugh. “This is a vampire den. No one comes here to ‘catch up’, especially when we haven’t really had the best history.”

I look down at my feet.

“I don’t want to know what you’re trying to not deal with, and I’m not too sure why I’m putting up with this bullshit right now, but don’t stay here, kid.” His eyes are baring into my face, but I stare down at my feet. The carpet needs to be hoovered, badly. “You’re too young. Come back in 10 years or so, but really, go. They’ll tear you apart, and I can promise that whatever you’re going through isn’t the worst of it. What is it, a bad grade?”

I roll my eyes at him. He gives a loud laugh, it sounds more like a bark. 

“Yeah, leave. Whatever it is may seem like the end of the world, but you’ll die here. Figuratively, since, you know,” he chuckles. “Anyway, you really don’t belong here. These guys have been through shit you can only imagine.”

I look up at him. He doesn’t look too awful when he’s giving good advice, and it actually pains me to admit that this is good advice. He’s right. I don’t belong here. What Simon is putting me through is nothing compared to what the vampires will put me through, so I might as well just leave.

“I’ll just show myself out then,” I tell him.

“Good. And don’t come back. You and me, we’re still not on good terms.”

I nod and turn. As I’m walking through the door, he calls out for me.

“Basilton?”

I turn to him.

“Tell Fiona she owes me.”


	4. Baz

1:10-1:18

_Isn’t it lovely?_   
_All alone_   
_Heart made of glass_   
_My mind of stone_

____________________________________

Once I left, I just kept going. I was in a sort of haze, unaware of my surroundings and not concerned with where my feet were taking me. I didn’t have control over any part of me, but somehow Nicodemus did.

Why did it have to be _him_ to tell me everything I already knew? I can’t decide who I’m more upset with: him for being nice-ish by giving me advice or me for sucking it all up like fresh blood.

The bell above the door rings. I make a bee-line for the shelf I’m most concerned with, pick up a bottle of the first Cabernet Sauvignon I see, then pivot back towards the register. I drop a 20 on the counter before the lady has even gotten her greeting out. This obviously irritates her as she eyes me up and down, but I don’t particularly care. I just need her to ring me up so I can start drinking.

“That’ll be another £3, darling.” she says through a forced smile. I hand her a £5 and tell her to keep the change, grabbing my bottle and stuffing it under my sleeve. I’m out the door before she can ask if I’m sure I don’t want a bag.

I’m back to aimlessly wandering. At least now I have a clue of where I want to go – somewhere without people so I can drink this whole bottle of wine without being criticized. I actually don’t care if I’m judged, I just don’t want to be asked if I’m okay.

We all know I’m far from okay.

I end up hiking through a wooded path, just a block down from the corner store (why do I always end up in the woods?) and plop myself down into the darkest corner I can find, sitting directly in the wet leaves. I don’t have time to worry about how ruined my trousers will be, I have to figure out how to open this goddamn bottle. I really never think things through.

I let out an audible sigh, one that closely resembles a growl. I start to pick away at the lining covering the top, muttering insults to myself.

“Stupid twat,” I spit. “Can’t even get a drink that doesn’t require an extra tool to open.”

The lining is impossible to get off. It’s almost glued to the bottle, and each time I try to tear it off, it only rips a small part. I start to get angrier than I already was and think about bashing the neck on a tree to break the glass. Even worse, I’m out of breath from trying to tear it off. Talk about a sad excuse for a man. I try to tear it off again, but only a small sliver breaks free. I slump in defeat, trying to catch my breath.

All of my anger and frustration is rushing to the surface, leaving me feeling worn out. I can feel my cheeks getting hot as Nicodemus’ words run circles in my mind. I was liking the wine bottle’s distraction, but I knew my anger towards the bottle was really a projection of my anger towards Nicodemus.

Wow, even during a tantrum I’m insightful.

Toying with the damaged ends of the lining, I think about everything that happened. What _was_ I trying to accomplish by going there? Obviously, I didn’t expect Nicodemus to approach me, let alone give me advice. Was I really that easy to read?

No. There’s no way. Nicodemus’ parting words rush back to me: “‘Tell Fiona she owes me.’”

Of course she’s involved in this. She couldn’t get over me refusing to talk about it when I was visiting her last week, so she went to Nicodemus for help. But, how did she know I’d go there? Maybe she didn’t, maybe she thought Nicodemus would hunt me down and ask me. Whatever it is, I’m annoyed she went to him about my problems.

I give one final yank to the lining, and by a miracle, it all rips off to reveal a twist cap. I almost cry from relief. At least Fiona’s interfering did one good thing tonight. I tilt the bottle back and take too many big gulps, wincing at the sudden bitterness.

I didn’t want to talk to her because she already dislikes Simon. Ever since I let it slip that he was the one I was sneaking around with, she didn’t try to hide her distaste. She had promised to keep it from my parents, but her constant, outright judgment was sometimes worse. Although she’s the only one in the family who has never had a problem with me being gay, sleeping around with the one person who is supposed to be my family’s sworn enemy didn’t settle well with her. I’ve grown used to talking around him with her, and if I had told her that he’s the reason for my problems, it would have been a shit-show.

I also didn’t tell her because she would have told me everything Nicodemus did. Despite not liking him, she still loves me. Now I’m glad he was the one to say it to me, because if it had been Fiona, it probably would have hurt worse.

The night goes on around me. I sit, slumped in the corner. I can hear the animals around me and the distant cars driving past. I stare into the nothingness, trying not to think about anything but ending up thinking about everything. The wine bottle is quickly getting lighter in my hand, but I can’t really tell how drunk I am yet. It’s too dark to see anything, but I am feeling more depressed.

Good. Just what I wanted. Self-loathing, sadness, the inevitable fear of never being happy again. This is what I deserve for being so careless.

Fiona has a point. I was playing with fire trying to be something with Simon.

“There’s a reason you have to sneak around,” she had said.

“Yeah, because we’re sworn enemies. And imagine what father would say.” I retaliated.

“I thought it was you who is always telling me to fuck what other people think?” she hit back.

“What are you talking about?”

“Because everyone only knows you and Simon as sworn enemies, you’re going to play into that narrative?”

“It’s not that easy…”

“I don’t see how it’s not. You’re constantly going against what everyone expects of you, yet with him, you’re playing right into everyone’s scheme. Have you even talked to him about anything besides sleeping together?”

I winced at her bluntness. “It doesn’t matter, it’s too dangerous.” I lied.

“How?” she asked, completely baffled.

“It just is, now butt out.”

Fiona always confused me. She wasn’t afraid to bash Simon to my face, yet also tried to give me advice on our relationship.

Relationship. Ha.

There was never a “relationship”, at least the kind I wanted. But I didn’t talk to him about it. I already knew he wouldn’t want that, he had too many things holding him back. Agatha, The Mage, his sexuality. He never talked about his sexuality with me, but sometimes I could tell it bothered him. He was confused, but really, it isn’t that hard to figure out you’re bi. I had assumed he would have already figured that out with me being a daily grope. 

Or maybe he wasn’t confused about his sexuality. Maybe he was confused about me.

No, he was definitely confused about me. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have snogged her.

Ugh. I can feel the wine weighing down my stomach and my head is too foggy to really do anything about it, so I just drink more.

I hate thinking about them together. I hate thinking about _us_ together. I hate thinking about Simon. I hate it all.

Why did I choose wine? It always makes me feel full and hot, two things I’m never used to. I wanted the self-depreciation I always get from wine, but I didn’t want to think about him. I guess it was inevitable, him being the reason I’m in the state of self-hatred, but I only want to think about the bad side of Simon, the annoying side. Now I’m only thinking about what happened, and worse, how much I miss him.

Why did he have to do that to me? He knew how much he meant to me. I accidentally let it slip one night, and I know he heard me because he had pulled back. But, of course, he didn’t say anything. He never really said anything.

I wonder if he would talk now. If I marched to his door and demanded answers to everything that’s been eating me alive for the past month. Why did you do it? Are you fucking stupid? Can’t you see you’re destroying me still?

He probably wouldn’t feel bad. He’s got the world at his fingertips, to lose me isn’t the end of the world. It probably didn’t even put a dent in him considering he hated me for the six years prior. He was experimenting, I was his experiment. He used me, and when he broke me, he just threw me away without a second thought.

I chucked the empty wine bottle away from me and listened as it shattered against a distant tree, hundreds of glass shards sprinkling down into the damp leaves.

“That’s how my heart feels,” I slur quietly. Maybe tonight I can let myself be a little weak.

But I shouldn’t. When I’m weak, I want him. I want to crawl next to him and have him hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay.

But he won’t do that. Because he’s awful and heartless and he never cared about me.

But I cared about him. And I miss him. I miss his voice and his naivety and his shining eyes and his curls. I miss the way his hand would reach out to touch me in the middle of the night if I moved away, as if he couldn’t go a minute without making sure I was there next to him.

But he loves Agatha. And he won’t ever love me. I’m bad for him, and he should be bad for me.

But I was fifteen when I figured out he wasn’t bad for me. He’s everything I’ve ever needed.


	5. Baz

1:19-1:30

_Tear me to pieces_   
_Skin and bone_   
_Hello, welcome home_

____________________________________

I am so fucking stupid. How did I let myself become this weak?

I’m pacing back and forth on the sidewalk across the street. I can see the glow emitting from the windows, partially illuminating the red shutters. Of course, the shutters are red. That is so like him.

In my defense, I blame this all on the bottle of wine. Drinking alone is never a smart decision for me but drinking enormous amounts alone when my heart is broken is even worse. I end up doing wreck-less and insane things.

Like come to his house.

I can’t believe I found it. I’m so drunk, the cracks in the pavement don’t look real. There are also three thousand of them. And they’re wiggling. Crowley, I am so drunk.

He showed me the pictures as he was hunting for it. His plans after graduation weren’t set yet, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. I suggested taking a break and working. He liked that a lot, so towards the end, a lot of our time was spent house hunting and him asking my opinion on shabby flats and cheap houses in lower-end parts of London. He said he wanted to experience city life, and I think he was also jealous that I was moving here for school. Not that he wanted to be close to me or anything, which is what I wish was the reason. Now I know that was never a reason for him.

I sit down on the pavement, staring directly at the closed door. It’s just across the street, I could walk over now and just knock twice.

Or I could not. Why am I here? I don’t need to be here and get even more hurt than I already am, which is what’s bound to happen if I talk myself into knocking on his god-damn door.

But I’m already here. And I’m so angry. I just need him to know I’m mad. Or maybe I’ll just punch him in the face.

I bury my own face in my hands. I’m starting to feel sick, and I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or the wine. A door slams and I jump, looking up quickly between shaky fingers. It was just the neighbor coming home, but I see a figure moving behind one of his windows. My heart leaps into my throat.

Or maybe it’s vomit.

I watch him move behind the closed curtain. It’s hard to see from across the street, especially since it’s hard to see in general in the state I’m in, but I can see his outline. I can even make out his messy curls. I feel the familiar yearn begin in my chest and I know what’s about to happen. I can’t stop myself.

I get up off the ground, swaying slightly. I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to force the feeling in my chest down and to remind myself why I’m angry. I also try to force the vomit to stay down. Both work. I deadpan on the door and start to march across the street, only to almost get hit by a car. The car tires squeal as the driver slams on the break, laying down on the horn. I don’t even flinch. If they had hit me, I wouldn’t do what I’m about to do. It would save us all a lot of trouble.

I give the driver a glare as he yells through the window and continue marching. My adrenaline has spiked now and is boiling in my ears. Before I know it, I’m stood in front of his door, my knuckles hovering above the wood.

I ring the doorbell.

I really think I’m going to vomit all over myself when I hear footsteps. Wow, it really took him no time at all and now my stomach is even more upset, and everything is getting dizzier while the lock is unlocking and then the door opens and he’s standing there with the most surprised expression on his stupidly handsome face.

I start to panic. Mostly because I don’t know whether I’m about to vomit or cry or both, so before he can say anything, I walk right past him into his house.

I stop in the living room. He’s still holding the door open, gaping at me.

We both stand there for a moment. Him, holding on to the door with white knuckles. Me, in the middle of his living room swaying slightly. Neither of us says anything, just stares at the other.

“Is your radiator on?” I ask, breaking the oppressive silence. His jaw drops a little bit more.

“Er…no?”

“Well, you better close the door before you waste the heat,”

He looks at me with confusion, then slowly starts to close the door. I can feel myself shaking I’m so nervous, and my stomach still violently hurts. But that’s probably just nerves now. Once he closes the door, he continues to stand there, gaping at me. My heart starts racing even more now that we’re enclosed in his small flat.

It’s a nice place, for Simon that is. The furniture is sort of tacky, definitely picked up from second-hand shops, and Bunce’s influence is everywhere, especially in the artworks covering the walls. I look around frantically. Actually, I’m probably looking around normally, but everything is still really dizzy, and my nose is being clogged by his scent.

I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my face as I continue to look around, my breathing becoming quicker. It’s becoming too much; his scent, his stuff, _him._ Then I see it. Laid along the side of his armchair is Agatha’s sweater. I know it’s hers because she wore it all the fucking time.

My eyes lock on it, and now, instead of nervous, I’m pissed. I feel like I was slapped in the face. My hands aren’t shaking anymore so I clench them into fists. I’m breathing long breaths through my nose, I probably sound like a bull. But I don’t care. The adrenaline the car that almost hit me gave me is rushing back.

I’m so fucking stupid for coming here. I don’t know what I was expecting by doing so, but I wish I hadn’t let myself become so weak, because now I feel like an idiot. I am an idiot. But I’m done letting him see me weak, done letting him make me weak.

He can sense I’m angry and I know it, because when he says my name, he says it cautiously. But I don’t let him say anything other than my name before I turn to him and charge.

I ram right into him, sending us both back to the wall. We knock into a table, sending everything flying, but I don’t care. He lets out an oomph as his back collides with the cement, and I’m pretty sure my knuckles were crushed by the blow. I’m blinded either by rage, drunkenness, or both, but every hit I send his way either misses or doesn’t affect him at all. Fuck his overpowering magic, fuck him for kissing Agatha, just fuck him.

He’s shouting at me, but I don’t listen. I’m muttering “fuck you” repeatedly with each hit and he’s struggling to grab onto my arms to stop me. His magic is growing, and I know I don’t have much longer before I’m fully overpowered, which only makes me angrier, so I start to try to actually aim.

I land a few punches in his arms and chest, but when I try to go for his face, he ducks under my arm and wraps his around my torso, pushing me back with enough force to knock us both down. My head hits the ground as he crashes on top of me, and everything goes out for a second. Once I can see somewhat again, he’s sitting on top of me, pinning my arms to the ground over my head.

“I bet you missed being in this position,” I slur. And then I start to cry.

He’s panting and looks mad, but once he notices I’m crying, his eyebrows raise, and he loosens his grip on my arms.

“Baz…” he says softly.

I hate it. I hate all of it. I hate how much I love feeling him on me and I hate how close he is to my face. I hate how I’m crying and I hate that she left her sweater here. I hate that I saw it, I hate that I came, and I hate the most how even though I hate it all, I still don’t hate him.

“Simon,” I sob. Something flashes in his eyes, but I can’t see too clearly through my tears. His grip lessens even more, though, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to let go of me.

“Why do you keep hurting me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last Baz chapter for now! And I am so, so sorry. I promise my next fic won't be this angsty.


	6. Simon

1:31-1:46

_Walking out of town_   
_Looking for a better place_   
_Something’s on my mind_   
_Always in my headspace_

____________________________________

It’s always better to take walks in the morning, in my opinion. Hardly anyone’s awake and the air feels so fresh. But really, nobody’s awake, so I can be all alone in nature. Just me and the birds.

The sun is soft. I watch as a pair of birds chase each other before me into the woods to my right. I wonder where they’re going, who they are to each other. Are they lovers? Are they friends? Are they both?

We used to be both. We would pretend we were neither outside of our room, but once the door was closed, it was just us in our own little world. No one knew because no one could see, just like I can’t see the birds that are hidden behind the trees. Are they still flying away from the open world? Or have they settled down next to each other, content with the other’s presence? Or are they actually enemies, fighting between the branches?

We aren’t enemies, though. Even if he made me feel like we were last night. My tailbone still hurts from where he slammed me against the wall and my jaw makes a popping sound every time I open my mouth now from where he clocked me.

I stop walking and sit on my favorite bench. It’s right across the street from my favorite bakery, and if I wait long enough, I can smell the pastries as the bakers begin to make them. Sometimes (most of the time) I buy myself a cherry scone.

Adult-ing is very lonely.

I never expected it to be so lonely. I always thought I would have Baz by my side. Sure, I have Penny, but she’s only available so much. Like the night before last, when she came over with a bottle of champagne and romantic comedies to console me because I was in a mood.

She still doesn’t really know what happened, she just knows that we were secretly together (it was the beds) and that it all ended suddenly.

Crowley, I still don’t really know what happened. All I know is one day it was all fine, and then the next, our beds were separated, and he wouldn’t even look at me. Talking wasn’t an option – pfft, it’s Baz – and then the year was over, and he was gone without looking back.

He did say goodbye, but he turned away once he noticed my tears. I could’ve sworn his breath hitched when he saw them, but he still walked away.

I watch the bakers move through the window. Their silhouettes glide along the darkened glass, and I think to myself how therapeutic baking must be. Just like people who garden, you have to take care to craft your scone. And the best part is, you get to eat it when you’re done. People who garden just get to look at what they’ve grown and then watch it die when it gets cold. When scones get cold, you just reheat them in the oven.

Baz was so cold last night. I had forgotten how cold he actually is. And you would think with how drunk he was, his body temperature would have been somewhat more normal.

I remember how his arms chilled my hands. The heat from my magic was overwhelming, but he still cooled me down. And when I finally let go of him (reluctantly, and only because he was starting to fall asleep while crying and it wasn’t fair that I was still pinning him down), I saw him go to grab my hands before he stopped himself. It wasn’t out of anger or else he wouldn’t have stopped himself. It was almost…longingly.

When I had rolled off of him, he turned on his side with his back facing towards me and curled up his legs. I was defeated and confused. He had asked me why I kept hurting him and I didn’t know what to say. This whole time, he has been the one hurting me. Why did he think I would ever cause him any pain? It wasn’t me who showed up on his doorstep at midnight to beat the shit out of him.

But even in my internal breakdown, I still reached for his shoulder and turned him back towards me. He didn’t even fight, but he was also incoherent.

“Baz,” I had said, hoping he didn’t notice the crack in my voice. He didn’t respond, silent tears just kept falling down his face.

“C’mon, get up,” I said, heaving his body up with my arms under his armpits. He sat up heavily, and it took all my strength to get us both off the ground. He stumbled into me, then wound his arm around my torso and grabbed the back of my shirt. His other hand was holding tightly on my bicep. My skin prickled under his touch.

“Simon…my…” he had whispered, trying to look in my eyes as I pushed him back towards the couch. I finally got him to lie down and covered him with a spare blanket. He was already asleep by the time I finished.

I stared at him for a while before willing myself to my room. I left the door wide open, which I don’t normally do in case a demon comes in, and listened to his snoring for another hour or so until I fell asleep. I woke up at 5 to check on him and he had already gone. I sat down on the cushions he had just slept on, running my hands along them as if to feel his energy but felt nothing.

Then I cried.

And now I’m here. In front of the bakery, thinking about the night before, and trying to ignore that familiar ache in my chest that only thoughts of him can create.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, I know, but here's the start of Simon's POV! He only has one other after this, but, here you go!


	7. Simon

1:47-2:03

_But I hope someday I’ll make it out of here_   
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years_

____________________________________

I’m sitting on the loveseat, just staring at the couch he slept on three nights ago. This has become my routine now. Wake up early, go for a walk, buy a scone, go to work, then sit in this chair with a glass of Riesling and stare at the couch.

For someone who doesn’t like to think a lot, I sure have been spending a lot of time thinking.

Penny says it’s good for me. “It helps you digest,” she said last night when she came over to get the sweater she left the night before Baz came over. I didn’t tell her he came over or what happened, she just thinks I’m having a rougher than usual couple of days.

Which isn’t a complete lie, really.

It’s not like me to keep anything from Penny. I mean, as soon as she saw the beds, I spilled everything immediately. She wasn’t surprised, which surprised me. “Really, Simon?” she said. “You’ve been obsessed with him since you met him.” I couldn’t even argue, I had been. But more in a “I don’t want you to kill me” way than a “I want you to kiss me” way. Turns out they’re almost synonymous, who’d have known?

I just don’t know how to explain what happened without having to explain everything beforehand. And since I can’t really figure out anything about everything, I figured it would be better to save myself from the pain of trying to explain it. I’m already not good with words, imagine me trying to explain something to Penny when I don’t understand it.

I take a sip from my glass as Sam Smith drones on in the background. It’s the bloody song Baz would not stop playing after he stopped talking to me. I hated to hear it at first. It made me angry that he would listen to it on a constant loop instead of talking to me. But then, a couple weeks after I moved in, I was missing him one night and put it on. Now I can’t stop listening to it.

It hurts to listen to, but so does my jaw. And my tailbone. I think I can handle the pain by now.

As I take another sip, I remember why I don’t like thinking. It is too consuming, and once I start thinking about one thing, I can’t think about anything else. Especially Baz. But he usually consumes every part of me. Everything I do reminds me of him and I hate it. And now my bloody couch reminds me of him, so much so I can’t even sit on it.

I want to feel angry at him. He just changed his mind one day and left me in the dark. I _should_ be mad at him. And sometimes I am. But most of the time, I just feel defeated.

_What did I do?_

I acted on impulse the night I kissed him, and it turned out to be okay for a while. Considering most of my impulsivities turn out okay-ish, I was really proud of how long Baz and I kept our thing. For years, we were only enemies. And we were still enemies outside of our room, but when it was just us two, it was different. I will admit, I thought this impulsivity was better than okay, but then it was over, and I felt worse than ever before.

Sometimes I wish we never built our palace, speaking in Sam Smith’s terms. Hidden behind our wooden door that only us two (and Penny) could get through, speaking softly to one another as we laid in our bed, laughing at the fact that everyone outside our door believed we were sworn enemies. How it made me feel when he said my name the other night reminded me of why I kissed him in the first place.

I look at the empty couch, empty wine glass still in my hand. I’m not nearly drunk, but I can feel a buzz. Not anything like how Baz was the other night. But still, buzzed.

And with this buzz I can’t help but think of how much I want to see him right now. Maybe this is why he had come over in the first place. We’re both pretty needy when we’re drunk, I know from how many times he would sneak wine into our room. He always liked red, but I prefer white. He would always bring the dullest white so we could share, a happy medium. We would get drunk off the wine and each other, constantly needing to touch the other just to feel the connection. I liked when he played with my hands, he liked when I played with his hair. We both liked to play with each other’s mouths.

Ugh. Thinking about these things makes my heart feel as if its crying. And since I’m not tipsy enough to actually cry, this feeling might be worse.

I don’t think about the things we used to do because it makes me impulsive. I’ve been good at not acting on these impulses, but I can’t stop staring at the couch he was lying on just three nights ago.

I wish I had been able to talk to him. I wish he hadn’t left before 5 in the morning to avoid me. I’m tired of him avoiding me, tired of me feeling like this. I want to know what I did and why he’s like this. I want him to spill out his heart to me, so I can pick it all up and wrap him in my arms. I want him to know how miserable I am without him, and how low he’s made me feel by just abandoning me with no explanation.

I just want to know.

If he can show up on my doorstep, why can’t I show up on his?

I stand up, the impact and the wine making me a bit dizzy. I put my glass down and fetch my coat, throwing it over my shoulders as I slide my feet into my sneakers. I don’t even bother to re-tie them, as long as they’re on, that’s all I care about.

Now I’m walking to the tube. I know exactly where his flat is. The letter from the landlord was opened on his desk when he wasn’t in the room one day, after he had stopped talking to me. So, I read it. And memorized his address.

Crowley, I’m the creepiest person alive.

The tube is pretty barren at this hour considering it’s 23:15, but there are a few fairly drunk women making their way home from the bars. I could never get into going out on Tuesdays. I’d rather drink by myself and stare at my couch.

I stare out the window as the tube zooms underneath London. There’s nothing to see besides the graffiti on the wall, but I’d rather not look like a creep staring at the other passengers, and my November resolution was to stop picking at my nails.

It takes forever, but his stop finally comes. I’m surprised I haven’t psyched myself out by now.

As I walk onto the landing and ascend the stairs into the cool night, I’m still feeling confident. I’m proud of myself. Maybe it’s the ever-present ache above my bum or the need to get it all over with, or both, but my walk to his flat goes by pretty quickly. Soon enough, I’m stood outside his door and, Crowley, now I’m nervous.

My knuckles hover over the door marked number 27. The marker is golden and shiny, and the door is a glossy black. It makes my door look like shit. But then again, this is Baz’s place, and he only has the best of the best.

I take a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth, a technique Penny told me to do when I start to feel myself getting too worked up. Then I knock three times. And then an extra two, just in case he didn’t hear the first three.

I wring my hands together as I wait. I feel extra nervous now.

It’s taking longer than usual, I think. I mean, giving him time to get up and walk over to the door, I doubt it takes more than three minutes, and it feels like I’ve been standing here for five.

I’ll give him another two. I count out 120 seconds in my head.

Nothing.

I raise my hand to knock again, but before I can, I hear a muffled voice say, “Go away.”

I look around, taken aback. There’s no one else out here. I turn back to the door and point to myself.

“Yes, Snow, go away,” comes his voice again.

I am completely shocked. He didn’t even open the _door_.

“How did you…” I start.

“The peer hole, idiot. Keep your voice down, I have neighbors.” he answers. I furrow my brows.

“Sorry,” I mumble. When there’s no response, I ask cautiously: “Well…can I come in?” I’m nervous again.

“No.” he replies.

I don’t even know what to respond. My mouth is gaping as I stare at the small peer hole. I came all this way for him to not even open the door to tell me to go away?

“I came to talk,” I try.

“I know,” he says, voice still muffled, “but no thanks. Try next door.”

I’m getting very angry now. He doesn’t even have the decency to have a conversation face to face, he chooses to hide behind his very fancy front door.

“I’m not a salesman.”

“You’re sure trespassing like one.” he replies flatly.

 _Trespassing?!_ I knocked! When he came round to mine, he burst through the door uninvited. Sure, he rang the doorbell, but at least I opened the door! (Maybe I don’t have a peer hole and didn’t know who it was, but still!)

Now I’m fuming. And he can tell, because the next thing he says is: “Go away, Snow.”

I clench my fists, my face getting hot. My magic is probably starting to leak, but I don’t care.

“How come you can come into my place uninvited, but when I try it, it’s ‘trespassing’?!” I yell through the closed door, kicking the bottom with my shoe. I leave a small dent. Oops. The neighbor peers out of her apartment, telling me to shut up.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. I look at the closed door, anger bubbling inside of me. He doesn’t say anything more.

“Fine!” I growl and plop myself down on the floor, back against the black wood. If he won’t let me in now, I’ll wait it out. I’ll get him to crack.

This isn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for making you wait so long, I am the worst. Anyway, enjoy :) hehehehe xxx


	8. Baz

2:04-2:21

_Need a place to hide but I can’t find one near  
_ _Want to feel alive, outside I can’t fight my fear_

____________________________________

 

He’s actually sat in front of my door waiting for me. He’s such an imbecile.

I do, however, understand his utter confusion when I showed up at his door the other night. The last person I was expecting to be knocking on my door was him; I thought it was Sam in a rage since I’ve ignored his texts for the past week. So, when I looked through the peer hole and saw _Snow_ …nothing could have prepared me.

Honestly, nothing. I’m still freaking. And I can’t open the door for him. First of all, my hands are shaking too badly to grip onto anything. Second of all, I don’t know what I will do once I open the door. Cry? Kiss him? Throw up? Start crying while passionately kissing him and then throw up?

But he also can’t sit out there all night, though knowing him, he will. He’s too stubborn at the worst of times.

I look through the peer hole again. His curls are wild on top of his head. They’re longer than I remember, considering my focus wasn’t up to par the other night, I didn’t really take a good look at him. But his curls are definitely longer, and a little darker, and my heart jumps in my chest. I watch him as he examines his hands. His nails look…good. Considering his nervous habit is to bite them, I’m quite impressed. It makes me want to hold them, but in order to hold his hands, I would have to open the door and that is not what we’re doing tonight.

I’m content with watching him through the peer hole all night. Maybe if I wait it out, he’ll get fed up and I’ll be able to watch him walk away. Again.

The reason I left at the bloody crack of dawn was to avoid talking to him. I figured it would save me a lot of embarrassment, and I’ve been doing pretty well at not thinking about it. But now, he’s here and ready to talk, and I feel the flame of embarrassment heating the pit of my stomach.

I watch as he shifts uncomfortably then leans his head back against the door, craning his neck to look up at the peer hole. I move away quickly as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong, then remember he can’t see me. I brace my hands on the door, hanging my head.

Why now? I know I provoked it, showing up at his door the other night unannounced, but still. He didn’t have to copy me. If he really wanted to talk, he would’ve said something in May before we left, not in November after I reminded him I’m still alive.

I look through the peer hole again. He’s standing now, one hand raised to knock again. I almost ask what he needs before I realize that would seem too creepy. He would definitely know I’ve been watching him this whole time.

It takes him a moment before he finally knocks. I count to twenty in my head, then ask, “What?” through the door. It can’t seem like I’ve been standing here the whole time. He shifts on his feet, stuffing his hand in his pocket.

“I, uh…I have to wee,” he says. I scrunch my face up.

“You’re a boy. Go outside.” I reply.

“It’s freezing, Baz, and you live on the second floor,” he pleads. I watch his face. He looks uncomfortable and my heart squeezes.

“Fine,” I mumble and open the door, walking away swiftly as I swing it open. I hear him walk in and close the door immediately, trying to keep the cold out. I feel bad, it really is cold outside. But then again, I didn’t ask him to stay. In fact, I explicitly told him to go away.

Once I reach the center of my living room, I round on him. He’s still stood in the doorway, apparently waiting for me to give him instructions.

“It’s that door there,” I point to the door off the kitchen. He shifts onto his other foot.

“Oh, er – I don’t actually have to wee…”

I cross my arms and frown at him.

“I was really cold, though, and I knew you wouldn’t let me come in if I was just cold, so, I had to think of something--” he spits out quickly. My frown gets deeper.

“Snow,” I stop him. His cheeks are getting red, and it’s not from the cold. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Baz,” he almost whispers, walking towards me. He stops a few feet from me. “Please.”

My frown lessens. I eye him up and down, taking in his disheveled look. God, how I’ve missed him. Not just his curls, but his whole fucking head. His blue eyes, his rosy cheeks, his pink lips. His persistent look of being flustered and his disheveled appearance to usually match it. I mean, he’s wearing sweatpants and a nice pea coat. I know he wasn’t thinking attire, just cold November air.

I unfold my arms. “Fine.” I breathe and plop down onto my couch. I spread my arms along the length of the back and cross one leg. He gives a small smile, takes off his coat, then sits in the loveseat. He folds his coat over his legs, looking excited but uncomfortable still.

“So,” he says after a few moments of silence.

“So.” I respond. I haven’t taken my eyes off him. My brows are still furrowed though, so he doesn’t get the wrong idea.

“Listen, Baz,” he starts, but I cut him off.

“How did you find out where I live?”

“Uh…” he becomes flustered. “You left the letter from your landlord on your desk.” His cheeks flush red. My eyes widen. “I know, it’s so creepy, I’m sorry,”

“I can’t believe you remembered it,” I say softly. He’s still mumbling apologies. I let him.

“…it’s not that creepy considering you showed up where _I_ live just the other night,” he says to the carpet. He looks up at me sheepishly, trying to see what reaction he can elicit out of me. He’s done apologizing now.

“I practically picked that place out for you,” I accuse.

“Yeah, but what if I had gone back and chose the other one after you’d stopped talking to me?” he retorts.

Oh. So that’s how he’s going to do it. My face is screwed up again and I’m practically glaring at him, but he’s not cracking under the pressure. Damn it, he’s gotten good.

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk,” he continues, “but I do.”

Gods fucking damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have opened that bloody door. My stomach starts churning and I cross my arms. Maybe if I cross all of my limbs, my insides won’t pour out like they feel they’re going to.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The part of my heart that isn’t in my stomach is racing.

“So, I know something…happened. And I know it was bad, because you haven’t talked to me since. I mean, sharing a room, I thought you were bound to talk to me at some point, but you never did. And it hurt so bad, some days I didn’t know what to do without you,” he gives a small, heartbroken laugh. I wish he would stop talking.

“I mean, I still had you there, physically, but I really didn’t have you, right? Not in the way I needed you...”

Aleister Crowley, I’m going to do it. I’m going to cry. And I can’t even stop myself, because I already asked him to leave and he wouldn’t, so now I’m going to cry in front of him and I hate myself for it. I hate him more for it.

 _Hold. It. Together._ I try to coach myself, but it’s not working. The tears are welling now. I try to blink them away, but he won’t shut up, so they’re falling now. Maybe he’ll just keep picking at the button on his coat and not notice.

“…and I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s been a really bad six months without you. I don’t stop thinking about you, ever, but I also don’t stop thinking about what happened. Or really, trying to figure out what happened.”

Did he just say…

“Figure out what happened?” I say through clenched teeth. He looks up at me, alarmed.

“Baz, you’re crying--”

“Figure. Out. What. Happened.” I growl. The tears are coming down hot, each one burning my cheek. This isn’t a sad cry anymore, I’m fucking angry.

Does he really think I’m that stupid? That he can just pretend to not know what he did and turn it around on me? That’s not how it works. I’m not the one who was sneaking around with my ex, kissing behind buildings and making a fool out of him.

“Baz…”

“Get out.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stop the tears from coming. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

“But-”

“GET OUT.”

I don’t look up at him. I’m still pinching my nose, my face contorted and my eyes closed. I don’t want to watch him leave. I just want him to go and never come back.

I hear him stand up. “I’m not leaving,” he says.

He’s going to drive me insane, I swear. I look up at him, fuming. “Snow, get out of my apartment.” I threaten. It’s probably less threatening than I would like, considering I’m still crying.

He moves swiftly towards me and sits down next to me. I put my arms up in defense, but he just grabs my wrists and pulls them into his chest. I try to pull away but, Crowley, he’s strong. Stronger than I remember.

“Baz, please, listen to me,” he’s started to cry. I’m trying to wriggle free, still, but his grip is too strong. My chest is getting tighter and I’m starting to hiccup from crying. I’m a fucking mess.

“Let go of me, just go away,” I tell him, but he’s holding tight.

“Baz, I still love you,” he says.

I stop fighting and glare at him. He just said that. He just said _that._ Fucking hell, I can’t ever catch a break.

In one swift movement, I rip my wrists from his grip. His hands immediately drop to his lap, his mouth gaping.

“No, I don’t…” I stand up quickly. I’m shaking all over. I couldn’t say I don’t love him, because that would’ve been a lie, but he doesn’t deserve to hear me say I do, either. He just told me he doesn’t know what happened and then had the audacity to say he still loves me. This isn’t how it works.

I back away from the couch. He’s watching me, terrified. Or heartbroken. Or both. _Welcome to the club_. I turn away from him, putting one hand on my hip and the other back to pinching the bridge of my nose. Looking at his face hurts too much.

“Please leave,” I choke out.

I hear the door close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait! School is really getting to me, but on the bright side, we're so close to finding out if Simon and Baz ever work it out! xx


	9. Baz

2:22-2:29

_Isn’t it lovely?_   
_All alone_   
_Heart made of glass_   
_My mind of stone_

____________________________________

I thought it was for the better that I didn’t tell him I still love him. I thought, for sure, that if I didn’t say anything, he would get the hint and just leave. I wanted him to leave -- I _needed_ him to leave -- especially after he said he didn’t understand what happened between us. By not telling him I still love him, I gave him no excuse to keep coming back.

That didn’t fucking work now, did it?

Here he is again, rapping at my door with a purpose. This has been happening for six nights now. _Six._ And it’s the same thing every night: he knocks until I can’t take it anymore and let him in, we sit in an awkward silence for however long he can handle, and then he leaves.

“I’m not done with you,” is what he says as he leaves. And every night, once the door is securely shut behind him, I whisper into my empty living room, “And I’m not done with you.”

Because even though I should be, I’m not. By the third night I was annoyed by his persistence, but it’s the sixth now, and just ten minutes ago my heart was racing at the thought that he would be here any minute, sitting with me in my apartment. I don’t even care that we don’t really speak to each other, it’s the fact that he’s  _here_ is all that it takes to make me dizzy.

After I open the door, I stuff my hands in my pockets to hide the fact they’re shaking. Seeing him always hits me like a freight train, although I try my best to show the opposite by pulling my resting bitch face immediately. Tonight, though, he’s not sheepish like he has been the past five nights. Tonight, something’s wrong.

“Come in.” I order in a monotonous tone, hiding the fact I’m actually concerned.

He pushes past me, mumbling something under his breath. I close the door quickly behind him, but the cold lingers. My heart feels like it’s in my throat as I turn slowly to face him.

He’s not sitting in the loveseat, which has been his designated spot immediately after arrival. Instead, he’s standing with his back to me, staring at the pictures on my wall with his hands in his coat pocket.

Everything is off tonight, and even though it’s only been six nights, the routine we were getting into was comforting. The walking right in, taking his coat off, making himself at home. Now I’m nervous.

I don’t know whether to go to him or to stay where I am. I run my hands through my hair, the sudden movement causing the floorboard beneath me to creak slightly. Snow spins to me, glaring at me.

“Uh—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Why did you say you didn’t?” he asks with force.

I take a step back and stare at him with utter confusion. What is he talking about? I didn’t what?

“Excuse—”

“The first night I came here. I told you I still love you and you said you didn’t. What did that mean?”

His face is set in a hard line, but his eyes are searching. I can’t tell him what I meant, because I would have to tell him why I cut myself off. I would have to tell him that _yes,_ I still love him too, but by doing that, I would admit defeat and he would win. He would get the girl _and_ the boy, and I would get nothing.

“Did you mean to say you don’t love me anymore?”

He tries to ask it in the same forceful way as before, but his voice wavered over ‘love.’ I just look back at him, gaping. I’m trying to steady my breath all while keeping a poker face, but I want nothing more than to just scream at him. Scream that I love him, but he hurt me. Scream that if he loved me, how could he hurt me? Scream that us sitting in awkward silence for the past six days has been better than the last six months without him.

His eyes are still searching, and I know he’s looking for vulnerability. But I can’t break this time.

“Baz…” he says softly, starting to move slowly toward me. I take a deep breath.

“I _know_ you still love me, Baz.”

UGH. I look away from him and watch the hands on the clock tick. I can see him still moving toward me out of the corner of my eye.

He stops right in front of me, cold emanating off his heavy winter coat. I don’t look at him still.

“I know you do,” he whispers, slipping his hands out of his pockets. My eyes are looking everywhere but his face. I feel his freezing fingers lightly touch my upper arm and slowly slide down, leaving goosebumps on my skin. His other hand follows his first until he interlocks his fingers with mine. I inhale sharply, closing my eyes again.

“Please stop,” I choke.

“I can’t,” he whispers back. His breath is hot against my face, his hands warming up in mine. I accidentally squeeze them. “Not until you admit it.”

My eyes flash open. He’s much closer than I thought, his blue eyes boring into mine. It’s too much, and even if I wanted to, I can’t tell him anything. I don’t think I have a voice anymore.

So, I just kiss him instead.

And I know it’s not what he wanted, but it’s less painful. He kisses back anyway. He’s been waiting to kiss me since the first night, I could tell in the way he would bite his lip every so often, so it’s not like he isn’t getting anything he wanted.

It’s so familiar, kissing him. He pulls my arms around his back, snaking his hands into my hair. His kissing is rough tonight, but so is mine. I’ve missed this so much it hurt.

It hurt like the way he’s biting my lip. Like the way I tear his coat off his shoulders. Like the way I back him onto the couch, but as soon as I climb on top of him, we lose balance and fall on the floor.

It hurt like the way he looks up at me once we’re on the floor with that hungry look in his eyes, pulling me to him to press his lips too hard against mine.

There are hands all over, groans and grunts everywhere. He’s beneath my fingertips, my body is beneath his. I pull his head back by his hair when he bites my neck, but he just stares lustfully down at me and kisses my lips again.

I don’t know if this is better than talking, but it must be. Maybe he’ll understand through my kisses that I still love him, and maybe that will be enough. He won’t have to ask me anymore and be disappointed.

Simon pulls away to look at me. There is so much love in his eyes, but also so much longing. I can’t take it. I look down at my hands that are unbuttoning his shirt.

I don’t want to think about what’s happening. So, I don’t.

I just let it happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for making you all wait but college and working really busies up a girl's life! I promise this will be done by January. Thank you for being patient! <3


	10. Baz

2:29-2:34

_Tear me to pieces  
Skin and bone_

____________________________________

I watch the sunset unfold over the horizon. I’m shivering in my own apartment. I turned the heat off so that I could feel something. It’s been over an hour now of me sitting on this ledge, staring out the window. I’m so fucking dramatic but I don’t care. He’ll be here soon, I think. Might as well begin torturing myself now.

I know he’s going to say something about the kiss, if he does show up. It’s been three nights without him now. If I don’t think about the fact that what happened could have driven him away and just convince myself he needed time to process (like I did), then I’m fine. The bitter cold piercing my skin helps with that.

I don’t think it was a bad idea. I mean, everything that has happened so far has been a bad idea, but kissing him wasn’t a bad idea. I felt warm again. And when he left that night, I didn’t only cry from pain. There were definitely happy tears mixed in there.

God damn, I’m such a mess. If only I could just stop wallowing over this stupid boy, I would be fine.

But I can’t. And although I hate to admit it, I need him to come over. The past three days have been agony. I can’t sleep, I can’t think. I’m hyper-focused on Snow, obsessed over why he’s not coming back. Is he going through the same thing? Or was that the final straw, the thing that made him realize I’m not the one for him?

 _I wish he wasn’t the one for me._ I think as I watch the sun disappear and the earth turn dark. There’s still no familiar knock on my door as the clock keeps ticking. I’m stuck staring at the street lamps, my memory flashing between Snow kissing me and Snow kissing Agatha. I don’t know which one hurts worse.

Before I know it, it’s half past 11 and there’s still no sign of him. I rest my chin in my hands, the chills enveloping my body. Having been so still for so long, I had gotten used to the frigidness of my flat. Now I’m freezing, but I just sit here. Staring. Longing. Being dramatic, as per usual.

Three soft knocks make me literally jump out of my seat. My heart racing, I take a moment to compose myself (and turn the heat back on) before I slowly, grudgingly walk over to the door. I rest my hand on the knob and frantically fix my hair with my other hand. Looking through the peer hole, I see his mop of curls and shakily sigh.

I open the door. He’s still looking at the ground, but he finally looks up at me, into my eyes. I force my face to remain expressionless, although all I want to do is smile from the relief that he’s actually here.

“Hi.” he says.

“Hi.” I reply. Then he pushes past me into the apartment. Apparently, that was an invitation to come in. Who would have known?

As he pushed past me, though, he rubbed my shoulder with his, the contact sending shivers through me. His cologne wafted behind him, suffocating me with how good it smelled. I don’t let go of the handle. I don’t think my legs work anymore.

“Why is it so cold in here?” he asks, bringing me back to reality.

“I got hot.” I reply, closing the door.

“Well, you could’ve just gone outside. It’s cold enough out there.” he remarks, zipping his coat up and wrapping his arms around himself. I roll my eyes as I walk towards him. Then, he starts walking towards me. I get scared and stop in my tracks, but he keeps coming. Next thing I know, he’s running his hands down my arms and breathing too close to my neck.

“You’re cold,” he whispers. I swallow.

“Yeah,” I manage.

I watch him move his arms up mine and around my shoulders, down my chest. He stops on my stomach and looks up at me. I’m trying to maintain my poker face, but he sees something in my eyes. Then, all of a sudden, he’s backing me up against the wall, still staring into my eyes. I can feel his grip becoming tighter, his fingers digging into my waist. I bite my lip. He smells so good. He puts his lips on my neck. I close my eyes. I try to grab his arms through his too oversized jacket, but instead I just grab fabric. I open my eyes, staring at the ceiling as he slowly plants kisses along my neck.

“Why did you kiss her?” I ask. He stops mid-kiss.

It takes him a moment before he pulls away. “What?” he asks, quietly. It’s harder to ask the second time when he’s staring at me with those eyes, but I have to.

“Why did you kiss her?”

“Who?”

I clench my jaw and push him away from me. He looks at me, dumbfounded.

“You know who,” I hiss.

He still looks confused. “Baz, what are you talking about?”

I walk away from him, towards the window. Does he really not know what the fuck I’m talking about? Is he _serious_? I try to slow my breathing as I watch the street lamp, but I can feel him inching closer to me, only making me tenser. I can’t blow up again, though. Last time that happened, we hurt each other. I’d rather him just hurt me.

“If you really don’t know what I’m talking about…” I start. He grabs my hand frantically and says, “I don’t. I really don’t.”

I rip my hand away, but I still don’t look at him.

“Baz—”

“Shut up. Let me talk.”

Silence. I take a few deep breaths, watching the twinkling of the street lamp. A car drives by. A dog barks in the distance. Simon is still extremely close to my back.

“Simon, I saw what happened. Behind Mummers House. In May. I heard you two laughing, and when I rounded the corner, I saw you kissing her. Kissing Agatha.” I glance up at his reflection. He looks horrified. I keep going.

“I know we weren’t…official…but I thought we had something deeper than that. Deeper than you just turning around and sneaking kisses with Agatha. I don’t know why I thought that, I guess because I love you and I wanted to see only the good side of you, but after that, I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t deal with looking at you knowing you had her in public and me in private. I felt lied to and I didn’t know how to handle it. Hell, I still don’t know how to handle it. It’s been months and I still feel the same. And the fact that you didn’t have even an inclination of why I was upset hurt even worse, because it showed me how you really feel—”

“Stop.” he interrupts, forcefully. He grabs my hand again and spins me around. Again, his strength surprises me.

“You don’t know how I really feel, you just keep drowning in how you feel. You never even _asked_ me how I felt all these months, you just kept letting me come here and wait for you to say something, and when you wouldn’t, you would just kiss me. Do you think that’s not confusing for me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Next time I run into you and Agatha, I’ll definitely be sure to ask how _you’re_ feeling, Snow.” I’m seething. I can’t fucking believe this kid. This is why I didn’t tell him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No? Because it sure fucking seems like that’s how you meant it.” I tower over him.

“That’s not what I meant. Fucking listen to me when I’m talking to you.” Now he’s pushing back. “What you walked in on was not what it seemed. Agatha was trying to convince me to get back together with her, but I said no—”

“Is kissing and giggling the new way to say no? Wow, I must really be behind.”

“Fucking—no! It’s not! But it happened and yes, I kissed her, but I pulled away and told her I couldn’t! You can’t blame me for only seeing part of the whole story!”

“My apologies, Snow. Next time I’ll make sure to stick around and watch you and Agatha make out in front of me. That’s really what I love to watch. Fuck porn! Let me just watch the boy I love make out with the girl he promised he didn’t love.”

Snow winces. “Why can’t you listen to me?”

“Because you didn’t even try.”

“What am I doing now, then? What have I been doing for the past two weeks, then?”

I turn away from him, listening as both of us breathe heavy with anger.

A few moments pass by, our breathing being the only thing breaking the deafening silence. I can feel him all around me. “I shouldn’t have kissed her.” he whispers. “I know that, and I knew that. But you just…left. You separated the beds and it was like I didn’t even exist anymore. I didn’t know you saw us, and you didn’t even tell me why you were ignoring me. I was left in the dark and I didn’t understand it.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s wrong, I did leave him in the dark. But I couldn’t just crumble under weakness. He was the only one who had ever brought vulnerability out of me, and then he ripped it out from under me.

The image of them is swimming in my mind and his cologne is so strong and I’m so upset. I sit down on the couch and put my face in my hands.

“Please say something…” he says softly. I think he might be crying, but I refuse to look up.

“I don’t know what to say.” I finally reply.

I hear his footsteps approach me. He crouches down and holds onto my wrists, but I keep my face in my hands.

“Tell me you love me again.”

I curl my fingers into fists.

“You said it earlier, and I know that’s what you wanted to say when you said you couldn’t the other night. You couldn’t tell me then, but you can tell me now. Say it again.”

I can’t believe he caught the I love you I accidentally let slip into my vent. I didn’t want to say it, it just came out.

“Baz…” he says, his tears hitting my knees.

“I didn’t mean to say it.”

“What?” he sounds broken.

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to say I love you.”

His hands are no longer holding onto my wrist. The smell of his cologne slowly disappears. And then the front door shuts. I still don’t look up. I won’t be able to handle the fact that he’s gone again.


End file.
